


Neighborly

by TheTwistedWillow



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Caretaker Dean Winchester, Castiel and Dean Winchester are Neighbors, Crushes, Developing Friendships, Domestic, EMT Dean Winchester, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Neighbors, No Angst, Sexual Tension, Teacher Castiel, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-27 18:25:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13886547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTwistedWillow/pseuds/TheTwistedWillow
Summary: Dean's new neighbor comes rushing out of his house with a bloody nose. Now is as good a time as any to introduce himself and lend a helping hand.Fluff, no angst.





	Neighborly

**Author's Note:**

> Miss me? I've been working hard on several fics, dodging back-and-forth between them. I'm trying to not post until I've completed them, or else I end up with WIPs that take forever to update, like Bonded and No Hell Below Us (seriously, those two will be updated one day... soon). So here's a one-shot I started AND finished this afternoon. Enjoy!
> 
> A note on bloody noses: I have a daughter who has epic ones just from dry air. Some people say tilt your head back, others say tip your head forward. I went with what we do. Ultimately, this fic is not intended to give medical advice WHATSOEVER. If you find yourself with a heavily bleeding nose that won't stop, seek medical assistance.

The familiar clicking spin of the padlock is music to Dean’s ears. He turns to the final number and pulls the lock free, stepping into his dank, dusty shed, fists poised on his hips as he waits for his eyes to adjust.

It’s not difficult to miss the large, metal machine that he’s in here for, rusting around the bottom of the dome that conceals grass-stained blades.

He pulls the mower out, grateful for tank tops and cut-off shorts and aviator sunglasses, because the sun is already a bitch and he’s barely flexed a muscle.

The oil and gasoline levels look good so he straps on some finger-less, leather gloves (blisters are also bitches) and pushes the mower out of the backyard and toward the front lawn. He wants to start up front and work his way back toward the shed.

Dean is just adjusting his earbuds, connected to the phone in his back pocket, when a loud slam from the vacant house next door nearly gives him a heart attack.

Well, it _was_ a vacant house anyway. Now that he’s looking that way, Dean can see that the for sale sign is gone and a man is stomping purposefully toward a car in the driveway.

The next thing he notices, though, as the man fumbles with his keys in one hand, is the blood running down his arm from where his other hand cups his face.

Dean is instantly on the move at the sight of red, ditching his mower to see if the stranger needs help.

“Hey, man, is everything okay?” Dean asks as he steps over the invisible line that separates his front lawn and the (apparently new) neighbor’s yard.

The man jerks in surprise at Dean’s voice and mutters, “Shit,” when he drops his keys on the asphalt. He bends over strangely, trying to see over the hand he refuses to move away from his nose, the valleys between each of his fingers coated in blood.

“Seriously, let me help you,” Dean says, quickly scooping up the keys, trying to avoid a collision with their heads when they both straighten back up. “Bloody nose?”

The man nods and says a hoarse, “Yes,” blue eyes peering over rust-red knuckles.

“Okay, pinch here,” Dean imitates on his own nose, “and tilt your chin to your chest. You don’t want to swallow a ton of blood or you’ll make yourself puke.”

The man does as he’s told.

“You got Kleenex or something?”

“No, everything’s still packed.” The best thing the man has is probably toilet paper, which will just turn to mush. “Hospital,” the man says nasally. He holds out his hands. “Keys?”

“You were gonna drive yourself to the hospital? No way. Your vision is impaired and… how much blood do you think you’ve lost?” He knows that last one is a stupid question, like his neighbor actually sat there and measured, but the guy kinda has Dean a little discombobulated so he's talking stupid.

The man bring his head up fast, eyes narrowed, and Dean can see it was too fast a move when the man’s eyes become unfocused with dizziness.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean mutters, grabbing the guy under his arms in case he's about to pass out and hit the ground. But his neighbor stays upright, thankfully, and it just takes a moment for the dizziness to pass.

“I’ll take that to mean you’ve lost a bit. C’mon, I’ve got stuff at my place. And if you still wanna go to the hospital in a few minutes then I’ll drive you. Okay?”

Dean tugs on his neighbor’s firm bicep, and the blue-eyed man reluctantly follows, dipping his head down again and trusting Dean to guide him over the grassy terrain.

When they get inside Dean’s place it’s an adjustment, from blinding daylight to dim indoor lighting, but Dean swiftly moves through his familiar space, guiding his neighbor to a dining chair in his eat-in kitchen.

“Alright, you hang tight and I’ll find something for all that blood.”

Dean tears off his mowing gloves and rummages through a drawer, coming up with a clean dish towel. He folds it once as he walks back toward the man, whose name he should really ask for.

“Name’s Dean, by the way.” He crouches down since the man’s head is bowed, and holds up the towel, trying to not touch any blood if he can help it. He's already gotten a few smudges on his arms but there's nothing he can do about that except to avoid more.

“I’m Cas-tee-el,” he says, voice muffled by the towel and the injured nose. “Um, thank you. Sorry about your floor.”

Dean stands back up, his eyes following the droplets of blood leading from the chair and toward his front door.

“Don’t sweat it. Carpet is coming out —er eventually— anyway.”

“In that case, perhaps I can help you tear it out, in return for your help? I feel terrible.”

“Yeah, maybe. So, uh, can you tell me what happened?”

“An unfortunately dull incident involving moving boxes, a kitchen cabinet door and a clumsy oaf.”

Crossing his arms, Dean leans back against the table and finally gets a good look at the dark-haired man. “Doesn’t sound dull to me,” Dean says with a smile.

“My nose definitely doesn’t find it funny,” Castiel says, lifting his head and pulling the towel away to look at it. “I think it’s finally stopped. Your pinching trick worked.”

“Meh, just doin’ my job.”

“Your job is saving incompetent neighbors in distress?”

“Actually, yeah, good way to put it. I’m an EMT. Though, _incompetent_? I’m not sure about that. Sometimes shit just happens.”

Cas frowns down at the towel and then gingerly touches his nose with a stained hand.

“Oh, wait, let me glove up and look at that. Then we’ll get you back to,” Dean waves a hand, “whatever it was you were doing.”

“I won’t need to go to a doctor?” Cas asks while Dean grabs a bag he keeps around for emergencies.

“Nah, you shouldn’t. Unless you need plastic surgery.” Dean laughs when Cas’ eyes widen in horror, the hand coming back up self-consciously.

Dean looks at Cas' face critically as he snaps on gloves. The poor guy’s face is a mess of dried blood, as well as his shirt, his nose is a little swollen with some bruising spreading to the area below his left eye.

“You can stay seated,” Dean says when Cas starts to rise to meet him. “Need to get you something to nosh on before you move, but I want to see if it’s broken real quick.”

When Dean crouches down, Cas opens up his knees to give Dean room, closing blue eyes and holding still. Dean scoots as close as he dare, purple-gloved fingers carefully press along cheeks, working their way toward the nose.

“You want the good news or the gooder news?” Dean asks after carefully feeling around, patting himself on the back for not losing his balance and grabbing the guy's legs or something equally embarrassing.

One eye peeks out at him, and then the other. “Gooder is not a word.”

“Yes it is, I swear. Look it up in the Dictionary.” Dean holds up three fingers and crosses his heart with his other hand. “Scout's honor.”

Cas narrows his eyes but smiles a little. “Alright, what is the gooder news?”

“You won’t need plastic surgery for that pretty face of yours.” Dean stands and pulls off his gloves and turns away to dig around in his bag because he hadn’t meant to toss the word _pretty_ in there. So unprofessional.

Sure enough, Cas coughs uncomfortably behind him. “And the good news?”

“It ain’t broken.” Dean looks over and grins. “I may have some Gatorade and I’ve got bananas. Or I could make you some oatmeal or something.”  
  
“You really don’t have to trouble yourself. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”  
  
“Cas,” Dean says sternly enough that it surprises the other man, “you almost blacked out and I bet you’ve got a whole lotta nothin’ in that fridge of yours right now, and all your shit packed up, yeah?”  
  
“Yeah,” Cas grumbles, frowning. “A banana will be just fine.”  
  
Dean nods, satisfied he won the argument. He turns his back to Cas to dig around the fridge for the Gatorade, humming to himself as he gets out a glass to pour it into.  
  
Cas dramatically clears his throat behind him. “‘ _Gooder_ is New England slang for do-gooder.’ Suffice to say, Dean, I don’t think your word fit in the context it was used.” Cas is holding up his phone and wiggling it when Dean turns around, having looked up the word.   
  
“Wow, got me there, Cas.” Dean sits across the table from Cas, handing him the drink and the fruit. “You an English major, or do you just like trying to prove people wrong?”  
  
Long fingers, still blood tinged, pull back the banana peel and Cas takes a bite, talking around a mouthful of fruit with about as many manners as Dean has when he eats. It makes Dean grin.  
  
“You told me to look it up,” Cas says casually, taking another bite, “so I did.”  
  
“Damn, so I did.” And just because watching Cas take down that banana is making his mind take an inappropriate turn, Dean looks away. “So you unpacking? I didn’t even see you move in, or I’d have said hey.”  
  
“Yes, the movers unloaded yesterday and I am, apparently, tripping over everything.”  
  
“Well, I’m off the next coupla days. You want a hand?”  
  
“You’ve already done enough, but thank you. I should get back, get cleaned up, and let you get back to your own day.”  
  
“Yeah, uh, of course,” Dean stutters, feeling like an idiot for imposing. If he was moving in somewhere he wouldn’t want people going through his things either. “Can I at least come check on you in a bit? Make sure you haven’t broken an arm while changing a lightbulb?”  
  
“I’m not--” Cas hesitates, pausing to take a drink. Already the color is back in his cheeks and his eyes look brighter. “Yes, sure. I’ll, uh, be ordering pizza for dinner. Maybe you can join me?” Oh yeah, now the color is really back in Cas’ cheeks.  
  
“Hell yeah. I never turn down a pizza. Six sound good? Or you can text me when you’re ready for company?” Dean asks as he gets up and takes the banana peel to the trash.  
  
Cas still has his phone out as he follows Dean and they quickly exchange numbers, Dean mentally fisting the air for being so smooth.  
  
Dean watches Cas walk across the lawns until he’s safely inside his place, without incident, and Dean walks over to his lawn mower. Thankfully no one stole it --he had completely forgot about it being left out-- and Dean gets back to working on the yard.  
  
  
+++  
  
  
Castiel steps inside his new house and leans back against the door. He tries to catch the breath that he lost the moment that he lifted his eyes up to concerned green ones out in his driveway. He carefully touches his smarting nose and pushes away from the door to head to the bathroom.  
  
The sight that greets him in the mirror is horrific.  
  
Absolutely and utterly horrific.  
  
Not only is it completely embarrassing that he tripped and landed face first into a cabinet door, but his _hotterthanhell_ neighbor found him with blood gushing out of his nose.  
  
“Way to make a good first impression,” Cas says to himself in the mirror. He narrows his eyes at himself and pulls his phone out of his back pocket.  
  
_[Cas] - 1:32pm - you didn’t tell me i looked terrifying enough to give children nightmares :-(_  
  
He pockets his phone and goes on a search for the towels and washcloths that he couldn’t find earlier, before he had run out of the house. There had been so much blood, and it wouldn’t stop, so he was going to drive to the hospital.

It wasn’t as though he expected his neighbor to notice or to be kind. He had inadvertently interrupted Dean’s day, which is why he didn't ask to use Dean’s washroom and overstay his welcome. 

Truth be told, Dean may be a teensy, tiny bit responsible. Okay, Cas can't really pin anything on him. But Cas had been in the kitchen, and could see from the window right into Dean’s backyard. Dean had been pushing a lawn mower out of his shed.

The man was distracting... Cas has a bit of a weakness for athletic, masculine men. So Dean may, or may not, be why Cas stumbled over his own two left feet and got injured in the first place. He pleads the fifth.

After a half hour of looking through boxes, to the tune of the rumbling mower next door, he finally finds what he needs and gets busy scrubbing his skin.

Much of his hands and arm are stained pink, no matter how much he scrubs. Finally he gives up and walks back out to his living room.  
  
“Shit,” he says, looking around at the mess. He can’t believe he invited Dean over here. Today has been an exercise in unsmart choices.  
  
So he starts moving boxes to their respective rooms, since the movers couldn’t be bothered to put any of them anywhere except the kitchen and living room. Once one-third of the boxes are distributed to other areas of the house, and out of his way, he moves onto unpacking the kitchen boxes. His phone dings.  
  
**[Dean] - 2:02pm - dont b so hard on urself... Ive seen much much much worse**  
  
_[Cas] - 2:03pm - I’d love to hear some stories then._  
  
**[Dean] - 2:03pm - that can b arranged**  
  
_[Cas] - 2:04pm - I look forward to it._  
  
**[Dean] - 2:05pm - srsly it wasnt that bad... blood doesnt bug me**  
  
_[Cas] - 2:05pm - Well... I’m much “prettier” without all the gore._  
  
Cas hits send. Immediately he groans and smacks his forehead. He doesn’t know why he just sent that. Yes, he honed in on that one word when Dean had said it, but then he had to bring it up again? He almost doesn’t want to read the reply when his phone buzzes again.  
  
**[Dean] - 2:06pm - i’ll believe it when i see it ;-)**  
  
He lets out a slow breath, in relief, and pockets the phone. He really needs to finish up and find plates. He pulls out cutlery, more dish towels, fridge magnets, and mixing spoons. In the next box he finds candles that his sister, Anna, had gotten him from the mall.  
  
He had peeled the labels off but he thinks they’re Yankee Doodle brand, or something. They smell amazing, like pumpkins and cinnamon, so he lines the three of them up on the breakfast bar and hopes he finds matches or a lighter somewhere along the way, to help dispel some of the musty smell of a house that hasn't been lived in for awhile.  
  
After a few hours he’s made a lot of progress. It’s amazing what one can accomplish when they’re motivated to make a better impression on, what will hopefully become, a new friend.  
  
At five-thirty, after Cas has showered and changed into a blood-less Henley and jeans, he texts Dean to come over any time.  
  
He has chosen a slate gray for the shirt and leaves the first couple buttons undone, trying to appear relaxed. He’s not very good at making friends, but Dean has been so incredibly easy to talk to that, if it weren’t for the texts, Cas would have thought he hallucinated their meeting.  
  
The pizza is ordered, the pumpkin candles are burning, and there’s a big pile of flattened boxes on his front porch. The rest of the boxes, what few remain outside of the bedrooms and storage, are pushed against the walls.  
  
Twelve minutes after sending out his text --he's not counting-- there’s a knock on the door. Cas runs a hand through his hair and takes a deep breath, opening the door for his handsome neighbor, who happens to be holding up a six pack.  
  
Dean’s grin falters and he swallows hard, eyes raking over Cas' face eagerly. “Ready to get the party started?” Dean asks once he appears to have composed himself, easy-as-pie, like they’ve been friends forever.  
  
It makes Cas chuckle and relax instantly. “I’m not sure what kind of party you think is happening, but yes. Come on in.”  
  
“Well, a pizza party, duh,” Dean says good-naturedly, following Cas into the foyer. “Cool place. The layout is pretty much the opposite of mine.”  
  
They continue through the house to the kitchen. Dean sets the six-pack on the counter and eyes the candles curiously before shrugging his shoulders out of the blue-and-purple flannel that he’s wearing over a t-shirt. He sets it over the back of one Cas’ dining chairs.  
  
“Now that you mention it, I can see that. I was a bit preoccupied earlier, trying to not bleed all over your house.” Cas winces. “I wasn’t making a flippant comment when I offered to help. If you’re serious about ripping out your carpet, I’ll be there, with a ventilated gas mask and all.”  
  
“Yeah, carpets can be pretty gross. Which is why I want it gone. You’d think, after living here for two years, I’d have gotten on it by now but—”  
  
“Life happens,” Cas finishes for him. “I completely understand.” Cas takes a beer that Dean holds out. “So, do you want the grand tour? Or perhaps not, since you’re basically in a reversal of your place?”  
  
“I’m actually interested in your record player over there.”  
  
Cas’ eyebrows shoot up and he glances across the way, from the kitchen to the living room, where a narrow piece of wooden furniture sits. It’s closed, so the only way Dean would know it contained a record player is if he has history with them.  
  
They walk over to it so Cas can show it to him.  
  
“Do you actually play records on it, or is it just for decoration?” Dean asks, blunt fingertips brushing over the shiny, veneered top.  
  
Cas lifts the lid when Dean takes his hand away. “I definitely use it. If we can find my box of records, we can play something?”  
  
Green eyes rise up and meet Cas’ blue, and something changes in the air between them. Different from earlier, when Cas was distracted by embarrassment, pain and adrenaline. Now that Cas can get a really good look at Dean, he senses that Dean is a very good person who has maybe seen a lot of shit in his life. But mostly, he feels a... connection.

Dean looks away first, maybe overwhelmed by the intensity building between them, or uncomfortable by Cas' stare, looking down at the boxes piled against the wall next to the player.  
  
“I’d love that, man,” Dean says so casually that Cas convinces himself that he must have been imagining things.  
  
Cas distracts himself by stepping over to the boxes, reading the short descriptions he had hastily scribbled on then. The record box should be easy to find since it only contains the vinyls.  
  
“Here it is,” Cas says after a minute. “Hold my beer.” He reaches behind him, condensation left behind on his fingers when Dean slips the bottle from his hand. Cas pulls the box away from the wall and into the middle of the living room. He's just about to rip the tape off when the doorbell rings.  
  
“That should be the food. Can you open this,” Cas asks, indicating the box of music, "and pick something for us to listen to?”  
  
"Your music says a lot about you, Cas. You sure you want me digging in here?" Dean laughs deeply.  
  
"Hey, it can't be _all_ bad," Cas jokes as he walks backward out of the room. His eyes are glued on Dean, who is holding their two beers in the fingers of one hand, while pulling a switchblade from his pocket with the other, in order to cut through tape. 

When Cas returns a moment later with the two medium pizzas, Dean is already sitting on the ground. There’s a beer on either side of his knees, and a lap full of records that Dean is flipping through carefully, as though he’s touching things that are rare and precious.  
  
Grinning, Cas scoots the empty moving box out of the way, sits down right next to Dean, careful to not knock over the beer, and plops the pizza boxes right on the floor in front of them.  
  
“Cas, these are awesome. Let’s listen to… this one.” Dean pulls a record out and Cas leans close to read it over Dean’s arm.  
  
He doesn’t really need to lean over. He can clearly see what it is, but his body apparently has a mind of its own today.  
  
“Queen II, excellent choice,” Cas says, getting back up to put the record on. “Don’t wait for me. Go ahead and help yourself to food.”  
  
“On the floor? I don’t want to get greasy food everywhere.”  
  
Cas lowers the stylus down to the vinyl and turns around when music begins to play.  
  
“Yes, the floor,” Cas says, making a point to sit back down where he had been. “Here, they gave us a ton of napkins.”

They each grab a slice, Cas not bothering with the dinner plates he had found earlier.

“Okay, I’m ready to hear about all these other people that you’ve helped, who’ve looked worse than the condition that you found me in. My ego needs a good stroking here, Dean.”

Dean chokes on the bite of pizza he’s chewing on but quickly recovers with a swig of beer. “Cas, it’s seriously not that bad. You have some bruising and a little swelling. At worse, you’ll probably snore like crazy for awhile.”  
  
Grunting at Dean, Cas reaches for another slice of pizza. “I don’t snore,” he informs the other man firmly. He takes a big bite. “Tell me a funny story.”  
  
Settling back on his elbows, Dean stretches his legs out and crosses his ankles. Cas looks down at him and listens with rapt attention as Dean regales him with story after story of some of the funnier situations he’s been in. If there’s anything Cas likes, it’s a good story... and a good storyteller.    
  
“I’m talking too much, aren’t I?” Dean says, wincing as he sits up to grab another piece of pizza. “I don’t think I’ve actually talked this much in one night in… a really long time.”  
  
“I have that effect on people,” Cas shrugs. “I’m a really good listener and you tell captivating stories.”  
  
Dean ducks his head, ear tips turning red. “So what do you do for a living? I can’t believe I haven’t asked that yet.”  
  
Cas smiles slyly. “I’m an English teacher.”  
  
Dean throws his head back and laughs, loudly, and it's beautiful. But then Cas is hit with a crumpled napkin that Dean throws at him.  
  
"Hey, watch the nose," Cas complains playfully.  
  
“Well, that’s actually really cool, Cas. I happen to have the most worn copy of Slaughterhouse-Five in existence. One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest is another favorite, and I happen to enjoy a bit of Harper Lee, Kerouac, and Salinger from time-to-time.”  
  
Cas stares, and his mouth may have dropped open a little, but mostly he stares. When he finds his voice, he carefully looks away and starts gathering up dirty napkins. It's not often he runs into adults who casually read classic literature when it isn’t required reading.   
  
“I assume you’ve seen the Cuckoo’s Nest movie, then?" Cas asks. "Did you enjoy it?”  
  
“It’s Jack Nicholson,” Dean says, like that is the most obvious answer of all. “Of course I liked it. They still did most movies justice back then,” Dean says matter-o-factly. “Haven’t you seen it?”  
  
“I have not. I’m reluctant to watch book-based movies because I prefer reading,” Cas says, hoping Dean might offer to watch with him. He probably won’t ever watch it, not unless there’s someone interesting to watch it with.  
  
Dean doesn’t disappoint.  
  
“We’ll just have to remedy that,” Dean offers, green eyes skimming over Cas’ face carefully, as though he, too, is hoping that they can use this common ground to keep seeing each other, beyond a couple of friendly, neighborly waves in passing.  
  
Cas smiles. “I’d like that.”  
  
They talk more, about music and movies, slowly going through the pizza and beers. Cas hasn't laughed this much in a long time, Dean's charismatic personality drawing out Cas' not-oft seen playful side. He's never experienced the idiom 'side-splitting laughter' until now and he knows he’ll be sore tomorrow.  
  
Dean glances at his watch eventually. “Crap, it’s almost midnight. Sorry, didn’t mean to keep you up. You’re probably exhausted after your injurious day,” Dean teases.  
  
Cas rolls his eyes and stands up, stretching out stiff muscles and tight joints. Dean picks up the pizza boxes and deposits them on the kitchen counter, while Cas gathers the brown bottles, the six-pack having been demolished between the two of them.  
  
“You saved me from a really expensive emergency room bill. Pizza and conversation is the least I could do,” Cas says as he then leads Dean to the door. Go broke or go home, Cas thinks to himself, so he adds, “I enjoyed spending time with you.”  
  
Dean stops in the doorway, chewing on his lower lip and fighting a smile. “Hey, let me look at your nose one more time. Ya know, just to be thorough.”  
  
“I don’t have gloves for you to use,” Cas says lightly, a flutter starting up in his stomach. Dean wants to touch his face again and he will definitely let him.  
  
“You’re not bleeding anymore, so it’s cool. Can I?” Dean asks, hands lifted but waiting.  
  
“Of course.” Cas licks his lips and closes his eyes.  
  
It’s a few hesitant seconds before he feels the gentle press of warm fingers against his sinuses, and Dean takes his time feeling around. A tender spot nearer to his nose is touched. He flinches and Dean murmurs an apology.  
  
This perusal seems to be taking longer than Dean’s initial exam, fingertips gentle and lingering, Dean’s thumb accidentally brushing his upper lip and making it tingle.  
  
“You should ice it,” Dean says, clearing his throat and dropping his hands. Cas opens his eyes as Dean steps back. He hadn’t realized how much closer Dean had come to stand before him. “That’ll help the swelling.” Dean grins and adds, “Which should help with the inevitable snoring.”  
  
Cas playfully narrows his eyes. “You’ve got my number. Use it.”  
  
“Will do, Cas. Gotta set up that Jack Nicholson da— movie. I’ve gotta say, I think we’re gonna be really, really good neighbors. Welcome to the neighborhood.”  
  
Cas closes the door and touches his tingly lip.

Very good neighbors indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Will I continue it? Dunno at this point but it’s definitely likely as I do have more scenes in mind. It’s a matter of finding time to write it. Click subscribe to be notified of any new chapters that could be added. 
> 
> Hope you liked this short little blurb. <3
> 
> ~The Twisted Willow~


End file.
